


it’s always been just him and me together

by gemstone_wings



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Human AU, M/M, No Beta, Pride and Prejudice References, We Die Like Men, i woke up and wrote this pretty much all in one sitting, like one sentence that mentions aziraphale’s death, soft, technically, the plants, they make dinner together, title from mitski’s my husband and I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 23:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20200279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemstone_wings/pseuds/gemstone_wings
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley, if you know where and when to look, is nice.





	it’s always been just him and me together

Anthony J. Crowley, if you knew where and when to look, is nice.

He’d bluster home from work, throwing the door open and his jacket over the back of the couch, call out “angel, I’m home!” kick off his not-as-expensive-as-they-look shoes, and smoothly saunter off to ‘check’ on his plants.

If you were to watch Crowley as he gardened, you might be taken aback by the threats he whispered and yelled and simply said to his plants, the level of perfection he held them to. But if you were to watch a video with the sound off, you would see what he tried to hide with harsh words about garbage disposals and leaf spots- you’d see gentle, caring hands carefully tending to this fern, moving that succulent to a sunnier patch of room, checking the dampness of the soil for that trailing vine. And if you were really lucky and especially quiet, you might see him smile at a flower bud, and if you happened to blend into the wall so well he didn’t notice you in his furtive, unconscious glance around the room, he’d lean in and whisper “well _done_, you.” Then he’d straighten up, dust off his hands, and head off to the kitchen, shoulders relaxed and jaw unclenched. Crowley would stroll now, tossing his jacket onto a hook and nudging his shoes more or less into place next to a pair of somewhat battered oxfords. He’d continue through the flat like a force of cleanliness, putting the remote back in its place, brushing the corner of the rug back onto the floor, straightening a pile of books that teetered dangerously. And he’d soon slither into the kitchen.

“‘Lo, angel,” he’d murmur, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist from behind, slipping his hands into the pockets of his apron, resting a bony chin on Aziraphale’s soft white-blond hair.

“Crowley, dear, you surprised me,” Aziraphale would reply, amused and completely unsurprised, taking Crowley’s hands and interlacing their fingers, wedding bands clicking softly.

“‘Course you didn’t. ‘M sneaky like that.” And the two would laugh softly. Unable to keep themselves from smiling. They’d stand there, in front of the counter, swaying back and forth, basking in each other's presence like snakes in the sun. Crowley would eventually press a kiss to Aziraphale’s head, a pre-ordained signal, and fingers would unlace, arms unwind, and they’d get to work.

Crowley would don his own apron, a blue-black affair, and the two of them would glide and swirl around the small kitchen, finishing whatever meal Aziraphale had started making while Crowley was terrorizing his plants, though Aziraphale wasn’t allowed to use the oven or the stove, and when unsupervised the microwave. The two would talk, as they always did, complaining about Crowley’s manager, or a customer who didn’t seem to understand that the plants in the shop below their flat were not for sale.

They usually ended up with two plates of something warm and tasty, and when they didn’t- well, there was takeout just around the corner.

Crowley would somehow _lounge_ on his barstool, Draped across it like a careless prince across his father’s throne, both smugly entitled and in the cracks of his soul deeply sure that he did not deserve to be there, leaning against the wall. When he invariably finished eating first, would gently bump his feet into Aziraphale’s in time with his heartbeat- _bump bump, bump bump, bump bump- _and grin like a Cheshire Cat.

Some nights, they would watch movies.

“The more explosions, the better,” Crowley would call from his seat on the couch, watching Aziraphale hem and haw over their small collection of rom-coms and James Bond discs. He’d sigh, fondly. “We’re going to watch the movie where Keira Knightley insists she can’t play the piano, aren’t we.”

Aziraphale would turn to his husband, eyes comically wide and beaming. “What an excellent idea, dear!” Crowley would groan theatrically and make room on their barely big-enough-for-two couch, curling up with head on Aziraphale’s lap, tartan blanket pulled over both of them, just barely showing a shock of hair the color of the edges of a flame, a glint of golden eyes, a gentle curve of lips into a contented smile. And when Aziraphale fell asleep before the end of the movie, fingers entwined in Crowley’s hair, Crowley would sit and watch in silence. The light from the screen flickering across his face. Shadows hinting softly at a proposal, lips moving in time with Matthew Macfadyen’s. The next day, Aziraphale will find notes on a sandwich in the fridge, made that morning by Crowley. Notes tucked in alongside his bookmark, in the book that somehow Crowley knew he’d want to read that day, out of all the books in his ‘currently reading’ stack next to their bed. Notes neatly handed over as change to customers, tucked in as they were among the ones and fives.  
_ I love you most ardently. You have bewitched me, body and soul. From this day on, I never wish to be parted from you._ They are all written in Crowley’s scattered chicken scratch, signed with nothing but a heart. (Years later, Crowley will find a box hidden in their attic, filled with every note he’d ever written, and one hand will go to the chain he now wears around his neck. Wedding bands will click together softly again, and Crowley will kneel alone, rare sunlight streaming through a small window like through stained glass in a chapel, illuminating his wet cheeks, one hand pressed to his lips.)

But that will not be for years and years, and in the present, Crowley and Aziraphale’s niece and nephews are visiting. Crowley is the one who keeps Adam’s dog, a little black and white Parson Russel named Dog, out of Aziraphale’s shop. He is the one who makes peanut butter and banana sandwiches- with real peanut butter, the type that has to be stirred the first time you open it- for Wendsleydale. He is the one who teaches Pepper to swear and throw a punch, introduces Brian to James Bond and hides the sweet wrappers, buys Warlock a book on earthworms, with another, thinner book about something called “non-binary” slipped inside, and is the one who ignores the light from under the cracks of the door of the room Warlock is supposed to be sleeping in as he stays up and devours both of them.

(He is also the one who washes the peanut butter banana smear out of Dog’s fur, the one who kneels on the bathroom floor, holding a wad of paper towels to Warlock’s nose and tells them to tilt their head back after Pepper’s demonstration of what she learned, the one who apologizes profusely to the old woman Brian accidentally hits in the face, pretending his yo-yo has razors.)

Yes, though he won’t admit it, if you know where to look, Anthony J. Crowley is nice.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a dream I had that was probably inspired by @mortuarybees human au on tumblr  
come talk to me @gemstone-wings on tumblr!


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